might have had. She’s an intelligent survivalist, with a pinch of snarkiness, sarcasm in spades, and violent as all get out. But what if it’s all bravado? What if her survival technique is to shut out the world so she isn’t disappointed if something unexpected happens?
My god, I sound like a chick.
I must be suffering the debilitating condition called DIC, Dick In Charge, since obviously he’s running the show right now. The stupid prick is filling my head with ridiculous thoughts, trying to justify the risk of swallowing my teeth if there’s even a remote possibility of a roll in the hay. Which there isn’t, because she sure as hell wouldn’t go for it, and I don’t even want to try. Sure, she’s a sexy pixie, but she isn’t my type. Oh, no. I like my women nice and pliable, and she’s about as flexible as a rock.
Must schedule release, stat. When was the last time I dipped my wick? I check my watch, 19 hours and counting. The new red head, what’s her name again, Vanessa? No, Victoria. It’s Victoria, and I must remember her name or I won’t have the pleasure of a proper welcome home via her ginormous vagina. That should hopefully cure me of my unfortunate case of DIC rather quickly. If not, there’s always that cock tease of a table leg.
Game plan set in stone, or I’ll beat that mother fucker into submission, pun intended, I start cleaning up. I pull out a cooler bag from my backpack and snatch the ice packs from a first aid kit. It’s one of those pop and shake things that only last a few hours, but it’ll keep longer in the insulation. Finding some Tupperware containers in the cabinets, name brand for these wealthy fucks; too bad they’re probably dead and can’t enjoy it, I pack away what little John couldn’t handle of dinner due to the food coma he’s now sleeping off. I leave the plate I made for Olivia, since I still intend to bring it to her even if I’m fighting DIC, she needs to eat. I’ll just put it outside the door, that way I made the effort. And I keep my balls, I call that a definite bonus.
Grabbing Olivia’s plate and my water canteen, I head upstairs. After taking a few steps, I remember her comment about stomping and make a conscious effort to lighten my tread as I approach the door to the master. Setting the plate down quickly before I give into the urge to knock, I back my way slowly down the hall and tiptoe down the stairs.
Mentally patting myself on the back for a job well down in tackling the first step in conquering DIC, I tap John on the shoulder to send him upstairs to a bed. He may be a morning person, but he can get grumpy if he doesn’t get his seven hours, so I take first watch. Sitting by the candlelight at the dining room table, I pull out a deck of cards from my cargos and play some solitaire. I can’t think of a more fitting game to play during the night watch.
<~~~<~~~ ~~~>~~~><~~~<~~~ ~~~>~~~>
After four hours on watch, 42 games of solitaire, and polishing off the remaining chicken Marsala, my eyes are starting to droop. I stand to go trade off with John when I see Olivia in the doorway with my canteen in her hand. I’m going to plead the fifth here since Ninja Girl doesn’t count as a threat, well not in the sense of being eaten alive. Alright, let me rephrase that, she won’t tear my flesh off with her teeth in mindless hunger. There, that’s better, she’s not the mindless flesh ripper that I’m watching out for, so she doesn’t count for being able to slip past my watch.
“I’ll take watch,” Olivia replies as she sets the canteen down in the middle of the table. “You look like you’re falling asleep anyway.”
I nod and brush a hand over my tired face, feeling thirty plus hour stubble. I must look and smell like a dirty hobo peddling for change, while she’s sitting across the table like a freaking Victoria Secret model. Her raven hair is loose and shining like silk in the lowering candlelight, smooth sun kissed skin, lips red
My god, I sound like a chick.
I must be suffering the debilitating condition called DIC, Dick In Charge, since obviously he’s running the show right now. The stupid prick is filling my head with ridiculous thoughts, trying to justify the risk of swallowing my teeth if there’s even a remote possibility of a roll in the hay. Which there isn’t, because she sure as hell wouldn’t go for it, and I don’t even want to try. Sure, she’s a sexy pixie, but she isn’t my type. Oh, no. I like my women nice and pliable, and she’s about as flexible as a rock.
Must schedule release, stat. When was the last time I dipped my wick? I check my watch, 19 hours and counting. The new red head, what’s her name again, Vanessa? No, Victoria. It’s Victoria, and I must remember her name or I won’t have the pleasure of a proper welcome home via her ginormous vagina. That should hopefully cure me of my unfortunate case of DIC rather quickly. If not, there’s always that cock tease of a table leg.
Game plan set in stone, or I’ll beat that mother fucker into submission, pun intended, I start cleaning up. I pull out a cooler bag from my backpack and snatch the ice packs from a first aid kit. It’s one of those pop and shake things that only last a few hours, but it’ll keep longer in the insulation. Finding some Tupperware containers in the cabinets, name brand for these wealthy fucks; too bad they’re probably dead and can’t enjoy it, I pack away what little John couldn’t handle of dinner due to the food coma he’s now sleeping off. I leave the plate I made for Olivia, since I still intend to bring it to her even if I’m fighting DIC, she needs to eat. I’ll just put it outside the door, that way I made the effort. And I keep my balls, I call that a definite bonus.
Grabbing Olivia’s plate and my water canteen, I head upstairs. After taking a few steps, I remember her comment about stomping and make a conscious effort to lighten my tread as I approach the door to the master. Setting the plate down quickly before I give into the urge to knock, I back my way slowly down the hall and tiptoe down the stairs.
Mentally patting myself on the back for a job well down in tackling the first step in conquering DIC, I tap John on the shoulder to send him upstairs to a bed. He may be a morning person, but he can get grumpy if he doesn’t get his seven hours, so I take first watch. Sitting by the candlelight at the dining room table, I pull out a deck of cards from my cargos and play some solitaire. I can’t think of a more fitting game to play during the night watch.
<~~~<~~~ ~~~>~~~><~~~<~~~ ~~~>~~~>
After four hours on watch, 42 games of solitaire, and polishing off the remaining chicken Marsala, my eyes are starting to droop. I stand to go trade off with John when I see Olivia in the doorway with my canteen in her hand. I’m going to plead the fifth here since Ninja Girl doesn’t count as a threat, well not in the sense of being eaten alive. Alright, let me rephrase that, she won’t tear my flesh off with her teeth in mindless hunger. There, that’s better, she’s not the mindless flesh ripper that I’m watching out for, so she doesn’t count for being able to slip past my watch.
“I’ll take watch,” Olivia replies as she sets the canteen down in the middle of the table. “You look like you’re falling asleep anyway.”
I nod and brush a hand over my tired face, feeling thirty plus hour stubble. I must look and smell like a dirty hobo peddling for change, while she’s sitting across the table like a freaking Victoria Secret model. Her raven hair is loose and shining like silk in the lowering candlelight, smooth sun kissed skin, lips red
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